


The Man of Her Nightmares

by freylis



Category: A Nightmare on Elm Street (Movies 1984-1994), Freddy vs. Jason (2003), Friday the 13th Series (Movies)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, F/M, Fetish, Horror, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-01-03 09:49:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21177440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freylis/pseuds/freylis
Summary: Lucy Thompson is a journalist with a dark secret. Lately, she's been having trouble sleeping. A man in a brown felt fedora seems to be tormenting her in her dreams and a man with a machete seems to be tormenting her in real life.CONTENT WARNING: This is an erotic dark fantasy fan fiction about serial killers with the subject of mental illness popping up every now and then. I'm not trying to romanticise serial killers in any way or condoning the act of killing. There's also plenty of sex and kink scenes. If these subjects make you uncomfortable, don't read any further.*I do not own any of these characters. All rights to the Nightmare on Elm Street and Friday the 13th franchises do NOT belong to me. Some parts of the stories may differ from the original storyline to better suit the nature of the fanfic*





	1. Into the Dreamscape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you familiar with my work, you'll know by now that my chapters tend to be meaty. Given how I want this separated, some chapters will be longer than others. 
> 
> Thanks for stopping by my fanfic and I hope you enjoy

_ My mother always used to make me say a prayer before I went to sleep. Now I lay me down to sleep... I could hear her voice whispering through my memories. She said it was to keep the bad dreams away but even after I stopped believing in God and saying the prayer, nothing had happened. But the prayer always went through my mind, I couldn't shake it._

_I stripped down to my t-shirt and panties and slid under the doona. Today had been warmer than usual, but there was something different in the air. Something was coming, but what? My mind trailed off as sleep claimed my tired bones._

_I was standing in a dark boiler room. There was steam rising through the grated catwalks above my head from leaking pipes. The whole room took on a demonic red glow thanks to a huge furnace powered by coals, but something else was at play here. There was a high-pitched scraping noise of the metal-on-metal variety._

_Through the steam, I could hear my mother's voice, saying her prayer. But it had morphed into something different. A rhyme. 1...2, Freddy's coming for you...3...4, better lock your door. Her voice began to change and my heart began to pound. My hands were shaking, What is this place? I thought. The floor began to feel hot on my bare feet. It was like the bowels of Hell down here._

_The scraping down seemed to echo, but I could tell it was coming closer, and closer, and closer. "Luuuuucy" A sinister voice rode along the steam. My heart was beating faster and faster, my whole body began to shake despite the heat. I was terrified but still I called out. "Who's there?" My voice sounding a little shrill._

_Footsteps that weren't my own were coming up behind me. I turned to see... "Your worst nightmare, bitch" He snarled in my face. I froze as he raised his hand up. His glove, it had knives on it! Each knuckle had a razor-sharp talon on it. He slashed his glove down, cutting through the fabric across my cleavage as I let out a blood-curdling scream... ___


	2. Back at the Camp

I wake up screaming. Drenched in sweat, panting with a strange sensation of being watched. I pressed a hand to my chest to try and stop my heart from beating out of my ribcage. I press my hand against my chest. It was only a dream, it was only a dream, I repeat over and over again. I begin to feel a little calmer, the sweaty sheen I'd accumulated had cooled and faded. But why did my chest feel wet?

I look down and bring my hand up. My blood freezes in my veins, my face goes numb, electricity shoots through my whole body. My hand is covered in blood. I look down at my chest. There's four diagonal slashes through my shirt and the skin beneath is bleeding. Exactly where the monster had slashed at me in my dream. This can't be happening, dreams aren't real, I think frantically. A scream built up in my throat and broke free, shattering the silence in the night.

I turn my alarm off five minutes before it was due to sound. I had spent the rest of the night with my knees curled up in my chest, rocking back and forth. How could I possibly sleep? Someone had attacked me. Was there someone in my house? Did someone break in? Were they still here? Those questions went unanswered. But as a journalist, I knew when things weren't right and knew what pieces fit together. These pieces did not. But the more sinister thoughts plaguing me did seem to fit.

The attack in my dream by the man of my nightmares? That did fit. And it sent chills deep into my core. It would be less terrifying if someone did break in. I could possibly fend off a physical form, have them charged and see them behind bars. But a ghost in the steam of my own dreamscape? Was far worse. But nevertheless, I got out of bed, had a long, cold shower to scrub away the night and prepared some coffee. But dreams were dreams. Maybe I did this to myself in my sleep? Whatever.

I went back into my bathroom and tended to the wounds, the one aspect of my nightmare that I could fix. The cuts weren't deep, but I still disinfected them and patched them up the best I could. I got dressed in a blouse, that would cover my chest, and pulled on a cheeky pencil skirt and my favourite work heels. I prepared my coffee and poured it into a travel cup, grabbed my work bag and walked out the door.

The day might have been bright but that didn't stop me from being jumpy or the man clouding my thoughts. I get to the office and settle in at my cubicle to work on an article that was due in three days ago. I spent three hours working away in total silence, finding solace in words. It was a bullshit article anyway about the price comparison of fruit from the fruit market and fruit from Costco. But I still found peace, taping away on my computer and threading words together in a way that will either piss off the public or turn them on to fresh fruit.

I rushed down the street and bought a toasted sandwich from my favourite café before running back to work so I can hide behind my computer and my words once more. My workload had dwindled significantly at the pace I was working at and it was beginning to cause an internal panic. I hated doing the bullshit articles, I much preferred the bigger, gorier ones.

I got into journalism to write about the Ted Bundys' and Charles Mansons' of the world. To do the research, have access to private information and get inside their heads to know exactly what makes the monsters among men tick. It gave me a rush to follow their tracks and interview them. It did something to my insides. Something I always kept inside and kept even deeper still. Never really admitting it to myself. These stories didn't come around every other week but when one did, I fought tooth and nail to be the one to write about it.

I'd all but killed the pile of work I had sitting on my desk. I looked at the clock. Only 3:30pm. I still had an hour and a half before I was free to go home. I groaned before resting my elbows on my desk and plonking my forehead down on top of my crossed arms, sleep deprivation grasping me in its claws. I tried to fight it but I was too weak.


	3. Into the Dreamscape

_Steam rose around me in the glowing, red furnace room. Oh shit, I think to myself. I wondered if I should hide or confront. My heart was pounding, frantically wanting to hide. But I also wanted to know more about the man. He alerted me to his presence with a grind of the metal claws against a metal pipe. The sound made me cringe but I stood strong. "Hello?" I whispered in a low, husky voice. The sound stopped but I had an idea of where it was coming from, so I walked towards it._

_What was I thinking? This man wanted to kill me! Rational thought finally breaking through. But there was something alluring about that. I kept walking towards where I thought the sound was coming from, my heels clacking against the concrete floor. I felt my stride change, tension releasing from my body. Less of a timid, scared step and more of a sultry saunter. "Are you there?" I call out._

_Heavier, more foreboding footsteps began to sound, making their way towards me. I stopped walking and waited. His shadow began to loom over me and I smiled. "What are you smiling at?" His growl in my ear sent pleasurable little sparks skittering down my spine. "You" I turn around and face him, at last getting a good look at him. His red and green football jersey looked a little dirty and was ragged._

_A brown, felt fedora that obscured most of his face at a glance, but up this close, I could see the skin on his face was badly melted. His expression read as confusion. "Oh I'm sorry, am I meant to be trembling in my heels?" I raise an eyebrow seductively. Confusion gave way to...something else. He didn't say a word as he quickly reached around, grabbed a fistful of my hair and twirled me around so my back was pressed against his torso. It hurt so good. I let out a sultry giggle. "Ah, so you're one of them" A grin tainted his voice._


	4. The Edge of Worlds

A loud thud woke me from my slumber. My head shoots up and pangs of rage tore through me before I could stop them but I toned it down. "Nothing better to do?" My editor, Mr. Jeffries, has one bushy eyebrow raised at me as he asks his sarcastic question. "I've finished my workload, it all just needs to be edited then it's ready so no I don't have anything better to do" My clipped response seemed to mildly surprise him. Either that or the fact that I'd managed to finish the entire workload.

"Oh. Right. Well there's no point in you being here then. You're done for the day. Take tomorrow off too unless something pops up" Mr. Jeffries seemed a little flustered at his mistake but nods as he walks away. I pack up my workspace and head home. I do the menial tasks of cooking, eating and washing up before deciding on an early night. To finish what was started. But before I went to sleep, I picked out something cute to wear. I plucked some black lacy lingerie out of my underwear drawer, put it on and tucked myself in, ready for whatever was going to happen.

_The demonic luminescence of the room lured me in, the steam no longer threatening as it invited me in. I stood in the middle of the room when sure enough. "Back for more?" He growls seductively in my ear. His gloved hand rested on my shoulder while his regular hand traced my bare skin. "If you don't mind" I turn to look at him and wink. He grabs both my wrists and holds them behind my back with his left hand while his gloved hand gently trailed up my body. One of the blades plucked the front of my bra, playfully giving it a tug before the blade slipped through the delicate material, my breasts now exposed to his touch._

_He traced a few circles around my nipple before giving one a gentle tug. "I don't suppose you're used to this, women looking for you willingly" I say seductively. "No, it's usually me looking for the perfect woman to murder. But I've always had a thing for the whores in this house" He answers deviously as his blade glides down my body, stopping at my hips. My underwear his next victim. With another playful flick of his wrist, my panties were shredded and settled on the floor at my feet, his left hand digging into my hips._

_He grabs a fistful of my hair and pulls my head to the side, baring my neck. I feel his blades graze my neck and my blood goes cold. Could this be a trick? Could he kill me? My mind and pulse begin to race. Adrenaline coursing through my veins. "Your fear tastes divine. I bet your wet pussy tastes even better" He growls in my ear as he spins me around to face him. I take charge, wrapping my arms around his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. His lips were hot and tasted of blood, he bites my lip. He lands one sound smack across my right butt cheek with his gloved hand. I feel the blades sink into my flesh, I relish the pain until..._


	5. Back at the Camp

My alarm buzzes me awake and I scream in frustration, punching the mattress. I suppose it beats screaming in fear but I was so close! Damn it all, I'd forgotten to turn my alarm off. I was so wound up, I'd never felt this kind of rush. The kind that had my knees trembling, my hands shaking and my womanhood quivering. I needed him. Nothing romantic, but I knew he would be the best I ever had. Is it possible the dream demon was once a man? An intrusive though. But a good one. I had tons of information at my disposal, why not abuse it a little? But first, I had something I wanted, no, needed, to take care of.

I log on to my laptop. I needed to start from the beginning. I grab my notepad and started jotting notes. Things I knew. Ok, he admitted to being a killer. A really hot killer... Damn it, brain, not now! So serial killer. Burn victim. Has a thing for knives and cutting women up. Here in Springwood? Serial killers sometimes murdered outside where they lived, but he mentioned my house so his killing ground had to be here. My pulse started to pound at that thought. Focus! I try to silent my mind again. That rhyme from the first dream. My mind was telling me there was an important fact there. What was it? What was the rhyme? I thought hard, trying to remember. 1...2... Shit. I couldn't remember.

It clicked. Freddy. I had a name. There's something else, you know this man more than you think, my mind whispered to me again. I looked down at my note pad. So far, it read:

· Serial killer

· Burn victim

· Knife fetish – Could be his signature

· Springwood killer

· Name: Freddy

I looked down at my notes. There's something I'm missing. It was something he said. About this house. The whores in this house. I gasped. The only other woman in this house he could be talking about, is my mother. Nancy Thompson. She had died a few years ago but I could still look into her records. I knew she'd had some mental health issues when she was a teenager. Delusions and hallucinations, the death of her high school sweetheart. She never spoke much about it, she said it was too hard to talk about.

But I added her name to my list. Information was information after all. Any sliver could make or break your article. But I started out small. Did he have a pattern? He was sure to. He came off as a seasoned killer. Seasoned serial killers always kept mementos and had a signature and it had to be something to do with that glove. It finally hit me. There had been a brief string of killings when mom was still alive. They were some of my earliest works. I remember seeing the crime scene pictures. Some of which I still had.

I located the file with the crime scene pictures and scrolled through. All the victims were young women. Some were teens, some in their early 20's. They were all found dead in their beds, violently murdered. The police department tried to keep it hush hush but I scrounge every drop of information that I could and wrote the article that kickstarted my career. My editor called the killer the "Springwood Killer", but I never liked the name. It didn't ring properly to me. The one thing all the victims had in common and stumped the cops was the murder weapon. They all had four identical gashes on their bodies. Almost, like a claw...or a modified riggers glove with blades?

The pieces were starting to fit together. I had a lead. I read through the first few police reports I'd managed to dredge up. Nothing except what I already knew. This string consisted of six killings. A seasoned killer would need more than six kills to be the veteran this man was. So the killing span was much longer than what I had. I scoured the town archives for anything. There were articles that had been edited and blacked out and my instincts told me that the information I was looking for was beneath the black outs.

But there was one article from a fringe magazine that hadn't been blacked out and I pounced on it. "The History of the Springwood Slasher". The headline had me zeroing in to read it. I'd read the first line when my phone began to buzz. I wanted to ignore it but I checked the caller ID and reluctantly answered it.

"Mr. Jeffries? I assume my day off has been cancelled"

"Correct. Get down to the old asylum. There's been a murder"

"Westin Hills?" My blood turned cold. It was the same asylum my mother had spent time in. Maybe there were some patient files there I could snoop on.

"Yes. Get to it"

The line went dead.


	6. Back at the Camp

I drove over to Westin Hills, a brief drive from Elm Street. As per usual when something happened in this sleepy town, it was pandemonium. Police officers and coroners and other reporters. But I grabbed my notepad, voice recorder and digital camera in hopes that I might find or hear something.

The chief of police was making a statement about some tragic accident while bags of dismembered body parts were being carried out, obliterating the lies he was telling. "Sir? If this was an accident then how do you explain the body parts?" I shout in a split second of silence, shattering the façade he had tried to build. He gave me a very stony gaze before replying with every reporters most annoying answer, "No comment". 

I groan inwardly but keep going. "Is this a reprise of the Springwood Slasher?" I tried again, but my slip of the tongue, I thought had gotten in my way. I had meant to say Springwood Killer but Slasher just slipped out, it rolled off the tongue nicely. I thought I'd cop another "No comment", but I was wrong. His head whipped around before gesturing for me to accompany him. I follow quickly, hoping for a tid bit. 

"Thank you for-" I start before he cut me off. "What do you know about the Springwood Slasher?" He asked bluntly. "So I've hit a nerve" I smile, hiding my blunder. The chief of police was an older fella, ready for retirement as they say. But the oldest minds were sometimes the best gold mines of information. "Off the record. You've stumbled on to something that is way beyond your reach. I know it's your job to report but leave this one alone. I beg of you" He stated. "I'll make you a deal. You tell me what you know or point me in the right direction and I will write what you tell me to. This is more personal. If you know my history, you'll understand" I look at him hopefully. 

He let out a pained sigh. "I knew your mother and her...troubles. Her file might be here and I'll give you what I can from the station. But we don't know what we're dealing with right now. All I ask is that you hold off on your story until we know what's going on. When I know, you'll know. If it has anything to do with the Springwood Slasher, don't write it. But it doesn't look like him. Wait here, I'll find your mother's patient file. No promises" He instructs before nodding and heading into the asylum.

I stood around waiting patiently, thoughts of my mother and the man of my nightmares swirling through my mind. I was so lost in thought that the chief nearly startled me with a box bulging full of files. "I hope this helps. Don't show these to anyone" He hands me the box and I stand there amazed. "What are these?" I ask, my eyes glowing at the treasure trove I'd just been handed. "Everything you'll need to piece together what you need" The chief responded cryptically before he turned and walked away.

I find my boss's number in my phone and dial. He answers almost immediately with his brash intro.

"Jeffries"

"I need more information which I'll be getting from the chief of police himself. With your permission, I'd like to work from home today"

"Consider it done. Don't drag ass on this, Thompson. I want this story while it's hot"

He hangs up the phone.

I rush home eagerly to start going through the files. I rummage through and find my mother's file. But I can't bring myself to open it. So I put it aside and read through the rest in a mild, fascinated horror. Files upon files of something called the "sleep experiments" and a drug called "hypnocil", a drug I was familiar with thanks to my mother. She told me it was for her schizophrenia but the material I was reading suggested it was a dream suppressant. There were a group of "infected" teenagers at Westin Hills who were administered the drug consistently but in the beginning, the teens were overdosing and were made comatose as a result. So over time, the doctors lowered the dose to an acceptable level and the teenagers began to benefit from it. 

The doctors chose their patients based on age and what mental issues they were struggling with. The main mental issues they seemed to go after were the ones my mother had exhibited. Schizophrenia, delusions, hallucinations, night terrors. But mental illness wasn't contagious, so why were they isolated the way they were? It didn't make sense to me. But the more I read, the more my questions were answered. 

Some of the patient reports showed that upon admission to the asylum, a physical revealed that all of the teenagers had been extremely sleep deprived and had attacked themselves in their sleep. But I knew better. Some of the photos attached to the files were starting to look very familiar. Same claw marks, different bodies. It was beginning to come together. This man was attacking teenagers in their sleep and they were seen as crazy and doctors used them as test guinea pigs. That was the gist I was getting. I sat with my conclusion for a little bit and it sat steady in my gut. 

There was one last file. My mother's. I'd finally gotten up the courage and cracked it open. She was one of the first people to be administered hypnocil and had somehow managed to survive the experiments. There was more. Her mental break started at the death of her high school sweetheart, Glen Lantz. There wasn't much information about the murder but I was hoping that's where the police files would come into it. 

I remembered the article I was about to read before I was so rudely interrupted by my job and jumped back on to my laptop. I read through it discovering that there was indeed a back story to the thread I was beginning to pull. A man by the name of Freddy Krueger, a groundskeeper, at the local preschool, Badham Preschool. It had been said that he'd molested several of the children and when the parents found out, they found where he slept, the boiler room at the preschool, doused him in gasoline and burned him alive. 

That was where the article ended but I knew that it's where the story really began. I pieced the rest together on my own, an insane theory taking form. A disfigured demon phoenix was born from those ashes that night. A malicious demon hellbent on revenge who had been tormenting Springwood, especially my street, ever since, occasionally taking a break when the doctors, parents and police fought back with drugs, curfews, lies and isolation. 

I was reeling with information and needed a break. It had taken me nearly four hours to sift through a whole lot of information. I should be disgusted. But for some sick reason, I wasn't. That dark part of me I had suppressed for so long was starting to scratch the surface. And I was beginning to like it. My obsession slowly rearing its head. My mother wasn't the only woman in this house who'd had a troubled past. I'd been in and out of juvi since I was 13, nothing serious but enough to see and do things I shouldn't have been. 

At 14, I'd met a guy at a juvenile correctional facility transfer and we did our best to cultivate a relationship. The best you can behind bars at least. I was 14, he was just shy of 18. When I was released at 17, he was moved to an adult correctional facility where I continued to visit him. For regular visits as well as conjugal visits. He'd ask me to do things I should've been ashamed to even think about doing. He wove his magic wand over me and I obliged. No matter how bad he was, I was always under his spell. 

It was 8:00 by the time I'd eaten dinner and had a shower, the man of my nightmares never far from my mind. I was eager to get back into the dreamscape but fear sat in the pit of my stomach. I shouldn't have been condoning or wanting this. I should walk away or get a prescription for hypnocil or something. He had been murdered for his crimes, he had done horrible things, but I couldn't stay away. But nevertheless, I got in to bed and let my body drift off to sleep.


	7. Into the Dreamscape

_ The scene was becoming familiar. Steam clinging to my skin and rising all around me, making the dim, red lighting of the furnace look all that more sultry. The familiar sound of metal scraping metal filled the air. “So, where were we?” I say, my voice a little husky. A felt one sharp blade graze its way down my back between my shoulder blades while his other hand snaked its way around my hips and slid beneath my panties, his fingers crawling closer and closer. He was about to find out my darkest of secrets. _

_And then, he plunged two fingers deep inside me. Rough, bruising. He claimed me. I threw my head back and moaned. A need I buried deep down inside for so long was about to be sated. “Does the little slut like that?” He growled in my ear. “Yes!” I cried as his fingers plunged into my depths again, his thumb grazing over my clit. I nearly came then and there. _

_Between his expert fingers exploring my pussy and the danger imposed by his glove, tracing over my skin, occasionally drawing blood, I had found my heaven in this hell. I moaned again as I felt the bite of the blade across my thigh. I felt the flames of my own heat begin to take over. The boiler room might be hot but I was sure my pussy was hotter as I drew closer and closer to orgasm. _

_I felt his gloved hand gently close around my neck and I began to burn. Heat wave after heat wave racked my body as I let out a banshee scream in total bliss. I writhed in his firm embrace, letting out years and years of pent-up need. I was breathing hard by the time the waves began to slow, his fingers withdrawing from my panties. “Well, well, well. I’ve made plenty of women scream down here, but I’ve never heard such an unholy sound. It’s music to my ears” I could hear the smirk in his voice as his fingers continued to roam._

_“What are you gonna do to me now?” I asked desperately, frantically needing more of him. The beast was out of its cage in more than one way and it needed to be fed. Now. I wanted to take control but fear and arousal kept me bound in place. “I’m just as hungry as you are, little slut. So I’m going to feast on your flesh” His promise began with him spinning me around and pressing his lips against mine. _

_I couldn’t help but gasp for air. His kisses were as brutal as him, they were sure to leave bruises or burns. His hand fisted through my hair, pulling taunt, guiding me towards a waist-height metal cabinet I’d barely taken notice of in all my visits here. He pressed my back against it and hoisted me up on to it, my thighs spreading wide for him. I could feel the metal heat against my flesh. “Good girl” He purrs as he disappears from view. His tongue felt deliciously course on my already sensitive clit. He must have made a deal with the Devil himself. The way his tongue flicked and played had me crying out within seconds._

_My back arched and I moaned in pleasure, my nails scratching against the metal in an attempt to grab on to something. Another heat wave began to roll over my body, molten lust threatening to spill over again. Was it getting hotter in here or was it my imagination? His tongue was becoming too much to bear as a bolt of electricity slammed through my body. I felt my whole body go rigid as pleasure razed me to the core. ___


	8. Back at the Camp

Fuck. The word reverberated through my head as I woke to sunlight pouring in my window. I didn’t want to be awake. I wanted to be back in the steamy boiler room with an even steamier lover. But why doesn’t he kill me? I wondered, rolling over in my sheets. There were so many questions, but no one to ask. I needed more information. A very illicit plan began to play out in my mind. My street savvy brain was up to no good again, taunting me to break into Westin Hills. My gut was telling me there was something there that I had to find.

I wasted no time yanking on a pair of pants, a top and some extra courage. My days as a juvenile delinquent had given me the means and the knowledge to do a little breaking and entering, but I still needed the tools and hastily looked around my house for anything I could use to jimmy a window or a door. Worst case scenario, I was sure there’d be rocks around I could use to make an entrance rather than use a pre-existing one.

After acquiring a flashlight, some spare batteries, a pipe wrench, a crowbar and an old credit card, I was ready to move. I hopped in my car and drove until I was a block or so away. Since it was during the day, I didn’t look a thing out of the ordinary dressed casually with a tote bag. That had all my tools inside. I pulled out my journalist notepad and camera as a cover in case there were police still around and went for a wander, looking for the perfect entrance.

I walked around the side of the main building and had the pleasant surprise of a narrow walkway towards a metal door that led into the hospital. Plenty of coverage for what I was about to do. I checked the door handle, the electronic pass key swipe long since stolen or destroyed, and found the door to be locked. Credit card. I dug through the tote bag and fished the credit card out. With a single swipe, I had access.

The hospital had been shut down in 1999 and was meant to be repurposed. Instead, it lay awaiting for decay to really set in. There was a dank dusty smell as I made my way further in. The paint had begun peeling off the walls and parts of the carpeted areas had begun to mould. There were still evidence that teenagers had been down here thanks to the graffiti on the walls and the odd empty beer bottle or homemade bong lying around. 

But where there were parts of the 21st century scattered about, so were remnants of the 20th century. Old wheelchairs and gurneys in the hallways, various medical instruments including lobotomy picks and stethoscopes laid where they were abandoned. Dirty needles and pill bottles left on the floor though I was unsure as to whether they came from the asylum itself or from habitual drug users who I’m sure squatted here.

Signs were still up and I followed the legible ones the best I could in hopes of finding more records but a scraping noise stopped me in my tracks. Shit. I ducked into a random cell and hid. Not only was I trespassing, but I didn’t know if I was the only person here who shouldn’t have been. The scraping was followed by heavy, slow footfalls. The sound was getting louder and louder, just like my heart in my chest and the blood and adrenaline singing in my ears. I risked a quick peek and my chest froze solid. I was face-to-face with America’s latest sweetheart, and he wanted blood.


	9. Back at the Camp

His hockey mask was dirty and had traces of blood splatter across it. His broad shoulders and sculpted biceps bulged out from dark blue coveralls with the sleeves torn off. He towered over me at 6'5 versus my small 5'4 frame. He looked down at me silently. "You're him" I breathed. I was frozen in place. I was torn between extreme fear and dark arousal as he slammed the door open and stepped into the tiny room, ducking to accommodate his huge frame.

His machete. Parts of it gleamed while the rest was stained with dried blood. It looked heavy in his hand. A small part of me wondered what it would feel like sliding into me, my own blood quenching the machete's thirst for violence. His steps were ominous as he made his way towards me. But I stood still. No longer out of fear, but because I didn't care.

At this act of defiance, the man stopped and brought the machete blade up to my face. The blade felt as cold as death as it scraped across my skin. But I didn't pull away. The blade stopped and I felt it press into my cheek, breaking the skin. The stinging sensation, the heat from my own blood, dripping down my cheek. It ignited the flame. My blood glistened on the tip of the machete as it was brought away from my face.

I slowly reached forward on instinct and held the blade back up to my face before looking at the masked man, and licking my blood off the blade. He watched in silence at this act as I swallow the tangy substance and release his machete. He lowered it before looking down at his blade then back up at me. 

He offered me the tip again and I smiled. I licked the rest of my blood off the edge before I started running my hand down the blade's backbone towards his hand. I felt him tense as my hand reached his. I gave his hand a little squeeze before I drew it away and went back to caressing the machete. He took another step towards me, not out of malice. His hand reached towards my throat and I half expected the machete and my neck to finally meet.

But they didn't. His hand felt rough against the soft flesh of my neck as his hand wrapped around my throat gently, his thumb stroking my skin. I step closer, closing the gap between us. I should've been running in the other direction. What the fuck was I doing still standing here? But this. This was my darkest desire. Dangerous men, big and brawny enough to hold me down.

The floor thudded as he dropped the machete and reached towards me. "How do you want me?" I murmured, my own hands exploring his expansive frame. In one swift motion, he picked me up by my thighs and I wrap them around his hips. Through the heavy material of his jumpsuit, I could feel the other machete. Hard and rigid against my already wet sex. I felt my heart kick into overdrive. Was this really happening?


End file.
